


Ice

by TheMalhamBird



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, awkward bedsharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 11:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16533893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: It comes through in whispers, whispers, whispers that send chills down Henry’s spine, the rumour…He shrugs it off, wraps his fur cloak more tightly around his shoulders, and continues the work of the Kingdom. For all it’s late February, the chill in the air is going nowhere; there are particles of ice in his inkwell and when he breathes he can see it, hanging in the air like mist.Just like everyone else’s.The breath of Kings, he thinks with a derisive snort- and then wishes he hadn’t. The other one doesn’t breathe any longer.[King Richard is dead. Henry mediates on kingship, winter-- and what he's going to do with Edward.]





	Ice

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for @malvoliowithin on tumblr

It comes through in whispers, whispers, whispers that send chills down Henry’s spine, the rumour…

He shrugs it off, wraps his fur cloak more tightly around his shoulders, and continues the work of the Kingdom. For all it’s late February, the chill in the air is going nowhere; there are particles of ice in his inkwell and when he breathes he can see it, hanging in the air like mist.

Just like everyone else’s. 

 _The breath of Kings,_ he thinks with a derisive snort- and then wishes he hadn’t. The other one doesn’t breathe any longer. 

Henry pushes that thought away. It doesn’t stay gone for long, however: that same whisper comes through to him, though no man dares speak it in his hearing. It isn’t true, Henry comforts himself with the thought of that only…it isn’t much comfort. It may not be true, but how can he prove it? Would it even matter if it did, when the world now seems to believe it?

Snow falls, again. This cold is impossible: the King cannot sleep for shivering, though there’s an impressive fire in his room. He sends for his cousin. It’s difficult to tell whether it’s cold or fear that makes _Rutland_ shake: his cousin flinches when Henry speaks to him, keeps his eyes downcast and his answers never longer than a soft ‘yes my lord’ if he can help it. Henry finds himself torn between annoyance and amusement. He doesn’t think he’s ever had such a nervous bedfellow- not even Mary, God rest her soul, the first time they shared a bed- but the positive side to all this is that Edward doesn’t fidget or chatter. He lies perfectly still and silent, and since the bed is far warmer with two men trying to sleep in it than one, Henry quickly drifts off.

He’s woken by muffled sobbing, and turns his head. Rutland’s face is pressed against the pillow, his shoulders trembling with the effort of being quiet. “Sit up,” Henry says sharply, doing so himself. “Edward, sit up!” he snaps, when Rutland freezes. His cousin sits up, slowly. “Look at me,” Henry commands, and Edward turns, shamefaced, towards him, his cheeks damp with tears that keep coming. “What is the matter with you!” he demands, giving his cousin a shake. “I’ve no intention of hurting you-” Edward sobs harder, and Henry exhales with exasperation as a string of mostly unintelligible words are filtered through the crying, until his cousin finishes his garbled explanation with a wailed  _“Richard!”_

Henry nods. And slaps Edward’s face. “It wouldn’t have been necessary if it weren’t for you,” he says harshly

“It wouldn’t have been necessary if you’d just stayed in France!” Edward catches his breath, finally looking up at Henry with wild, frightened eyes.

The King nods grimly. “I thought we were past this,” he said. “You promised me no more trouble.”

“I-”

“Come morning, you will go to your father and repeat what you said,” the King continued. “And you will tell York that I would be much obliged if he were to administer punishment- I have not the patience to deal with you.” he lay back down, intent on catching a few more hours sleep at least.

“Everyone is saying you sent a knight to kill him,” Edward whispers. “Is it true?” 

“No.”

“But then-”

“He starved,” Henry said, sitting back up and looking him straight in the eye. “He took no food, and no water, he died lying in filth with the chains still on his wrists and not one hair on his pretty head did I touch!”  He feels a vicious flare of satisfaction at that; Edward stares at him in horror.

“In what way is that _better?”_ he whispers. “Oh Christ- Christ, it would have been agony-” he looks as though he’s going to be sick. Henry settles back. 

“You’d have rather I sent a man with pillows to smother him, as you and your precious Richard did our uncle?” 

“I didn’t- we didn’t-”

“Don’t bother denying it,”  Henry snorts, “Everyone knows it for truth.”

Edward lays down too, then-lays his head on the King’s chest, seeking comfort from the other man’s heart beat, for all it’s the wrong man’s heartbeat. Richard would have wrapped his arms around him, or petted him, or something; Henry does not move a muscle. “You sent Piers Exton to put a knife in Richard’s heart,” he whispers. “Only Richard  fought back and so Exton split his skull. Everyone knows it for truth.”

 

Henry absorbs that information, and says nothing. He finds that it does not matter.

He wonders what it is about the crown that turns the wearer’s heart to ice.


End file.
